


A wedding in Alqualondë

by ohboromir



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Wedding, arafinweanweek2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohboromir/pseuds/ohboromir
Summary: He wound his fingers in her hair.  In their shared youth, they had spent many hours like this, winding braids into each other’s hair or making models mindlessly in the sand. They did not need words. Just them and the silence. Timeless, with neither grief nor care.  What more could Arafinwë ask for?





	A wedding in Alqualondë

After so many years in this guest suite, it felt strange to see it so bare. All his possessions – the few things he would truly call his own – had been removed, already sent to the private, beachside villa that was Olwë’s wedding gift. Their own home, away from the politics of the royal courts. The thought filled him with dread as much as it did joy. They had never been alone together before.

The elf in the mirror wore the robes of a prince; tight at the chest and fanning out at the waist, cut at the knee, with sweeping sleeves. Noldorin fashion, in the pale blues and silvers of Alqualondë. Golden curls were pinned back from his face with a silver pin, the strands threaded with white gems. He was tall and proud, subtle pride in his bearing. Blue eyes flickered over the figure, scrutinising, critical. Even this relaxed, flowing look was carefully cultivated, an image for the crowds without a single strand out of place.

He hardly recognised himself.

“You look perfect, Ingoldo.”

Indis’ smile was tainted with sadness. His mother crossed the room, taking his hands in hers.

“No one calls me that.” He could not bring himself to smile back. All his youth, he had tried to distance himself from his mother name, to avoid the shame, knowing he had not lived up to it. _The Noldo._ Even his mother was more Noldorin than him. Only Eärwen called by that name, when they were alone. In her voice, it sounded right.

“ _You_ are never in Tirion to hear it.” Indis countered, reaching up to cup his cheek. Arafinwë relaxed; despite their awkward differences – or perhaps, their similarities – her gentle touch calmed him just as it had when he was a child. “My little Ingoldo, all grown. You will still write to your Atar and I, yes?”

A surge of guilt rose up within him. When he was first sent to Alqualondë, his letters had been almost daily. In his loneliness, he had nothing to do but write. But in the later years he had hardly written at all, hardly spared a thought for his parents. Alqualondë had become his home. But he would be better now, the perfect son if he could not be the perfect prince.

“Yes, Ammë.”

As he stared back at her face, he wondered what she saw. Did his mother see her own face in his? A youthful elf marrying into another family, leaving behind his parents and his blood kin, as she had done so many years before. Perhaps they were alike in more ways than he had once thought.

“Good.” She ended the silence with a smile and a tender kiss on his cheek. “Go and enjoy yourself, Ingoldo. You deserve to be happy.” With a final squeeze of his hand, she left him to his thoughts again.

Ever the dutiful son, he stepped out into the hall.

*

While the young bridegroom had been deemed sensible enough to dress himself, the rebellious bride had to be assisted – her mother feared she would rip her gown before even saying her vows. Eärwen sat in the cushioned chair before the mirror, as a handmaid wound her silver ringlets into an elaborate style, adorned with her own mother’s wedding pearls and a jewelled circlet fit for any Crown Princess.

“I wish Arvo was here.” she complained, the powder blue silks of her dress rustling as she folded her arms. “He would enjoy this more than me. I do not see why I should need to wear all these jewels at my own wedding.”

“He has just as many in his hair, I imagine.” the handmaid laughed as she stepped back to admire her work. “If not more. You have good taste, dear. You will make such handsome babies together.”

“Méliel!” Eärwen swatted her arm, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. Her old nursemaid had always been cheeky; perhaps Eärwen’s mischievous side was learned from her, not her father. Although she was sure Olwë would tease her too, as he had when they had gone to him to ask to marry. _‘Why, aren’t you already?’ He had laughed, clapping Arvo on the shoulder. ‘Take good care of him.’_

“Please. Don’t tell me you haven’t been getting _familiar_ with our dear Arvo? Or is he too proper for that?”

Eärwen faltered. The truth was the pair had all but consummated their bond, on their secret midnight trysts. But Arafinwë was ever concerned with honour and reputation, and, if she was honest, the secrecy was part of the thrill. There was much of this that was out of their control. They were the children of kings and their marriage could not be the small, simple affair they had wanted. This was one thing she wanted to keep theirs.

It was a meaningless excuse. They were Quendi, immortal, and safe in Valinor. Why should her father’s throne ever pass to her, and so why did it matter who she married? And Ingoldo was the youngest of five. Neither of them would ever wear a crown and that was just the way she liked it. When she had confessed this to him, Arvo had grown quiet, then laughed. _You would look ridiculous in a crown. “_ Of course not. Arvo likes to do things properly.”

Méliel simply smiled knowingly.

Eärwen stood and smoothed her gown. No one could say she was not artistic. She had designed the dress herself; pale blue lace for the bodice, the layered skirt of blue and white, as though she were floating on sea foam and a cloak of swan’s feathers. Her father would cry when he saw her, that she knew. “Do you know if Curufinwë has arrived? I want to speak to him before he speaks to Arvo. I will not let him ruin today for him.”

Why her fiancé had insisted on inviting his half-brother, she did not know. Protocol suggested he should be present, since she was the Crown Princess of the Teleri and Arvo was his brother, but he had wormed his way out attending Findis’ wedding in Taniquetil, and he had still only been young then. But Arvo seemed confident he would be here and she knew better than to doubt his instinct.

“I heard him talking with Nenalasso. He seems fascinated by the building of ships; though he declined the offer to go out on one.”

“Well, I’m going to find him.”

*

It was already too late. The two sons of Finwë stood in a corner away from the rest of the guests; everyone had enough sense to leave them alone, though Arvo could feel Nolofinwë watching them, waiting for any sign of trouble.

But it was unnecessary. Fëanáro smiled awkwardly at his brother and grasped him by the shoulder. An attempt at brotherly tenderness, though perhaps a little too rough and a little too strained. Nevertheless, Arvo smiled back. All his life, he had been desperate for his eldest brother’s affections. If this was the closest he was going to get, then he would take it without complaint.

“Arafinwë,” Fëanáro winced as he used that name, as though it still pained him to admit they shared the name of their father. “I hope you have found happiness with your Teleri bride.”

“She has a name, Curufinwë.”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m trying to be nice.” Was that the hint of a smile? “As I was saying, congratulations. I hope you are happy; and if you are not, you can come to me.”

“Are you drunk already?”

“You may have a different mother, but your existence is not as offensive as I may have led you to believe. You are still of the House of Finwë and I will not you languish here if you do not want to.”

“Thank you, brother.” Arvo reached up and grasped the hand on his shoulder, eyes dancing with mirth. Whatever had gotten into his brother, he liked it. From Fëanáro, this declaration was highest praise. “I appreciate your words. Now, please, release me. I have a wedding to attend.”

With that, he let go of Fëanáro and returned to the party.

Of the ceremony, Arvo remembered very little. All his attention had been on Eärwen as they stood together in front of the crowd; he could hardly hear the cheering. His voice trembling as he promised himself to her, his hands felt weak and clumsy as he threaded the ring onto her finger. By contrast, Eärwen seemed serene, crystalline, graceful. She had never looked more beautiful. It was no surprise that her father was moved to tears behind her, weeping against his one of his sons’ shoulders. He could not see his own parents in the crowd; they must be the other side of him.

Then it was over and he was her husband; they stood before the crowd and kissed, before being enveloped by a gaggle of well wishers.

It was only once they had retired to their new home that they got the chance to speak properly. Giddy with wine and euphoria, Eärwen had swept him off his feet to carry him up to the balconied bedroom. Out on the balcony, they arranged cushions against the barrier and settled down against them, a bottle of sweet wine forgotten beside them.

His hair had come undone at some point and shrouded him; the tight robes were quickly unbuttoned and cast aside. They struggled a little more with her dress, but soon they bundled beneath her feathered cloak. Eärwen’s hair had come out of the braids too,a shimmering silver halo, as though she had caught the stars in her net and woven them into her hair. She was more star-like than Varda herself, more treasured than the light of Telperion.

“Did you see your brother tonight?”

“Yes,” Arvo laughed, his chest light and bubbly. “He was almost sweet. Threatened you if you break my heart.”

Eärwen raised an eyebrow, her head on his lap. “Oh? I was worried he would try and upset you.”

He wound his fingers in her hair. In their shared youth, they had spent many hours like this, winding braids into each other’s hair or making models mindlessly in the sand. They did not need words. Just them and the silence. Timeless, with neither grief nor care. What more could Arafinwë ask for?

“He would not lower himself to upsetting me. I am hardly worth his time. Let’s not talk about him.”

Her laugh rang through the cool air. Her lips twisted in a mischievous smile and before he could react was pinning him down against the cloak. Not even the command of Manwë would release him from her spell. A shiver shook him as she leaned down to nip at his earlobe. No longer afraid of being caught, a newer, more exciting thrill held him enthralled; she was his wife, she was his as much as he was hers, and no scandal could tear them apart. Not to be outdone, he rolled his hips up against her, soft hands reaching to trace every inch of skin.

“Oh!” She gasped, a hand on his chest. Her hands were rougher than his, from the sea and the ropes of her ships. He liked it. Out on the water, she was magnificent, calm, a mistress of the water. To his inexperienced eye, she seemed to bend the sea to her will, but then Ulmo and his maiar had ever favoured Olwë’s kin.

Their eyes met. They kissed; a delicate tender press of the lips. Then again, hungry this time, eager and clumsy and deep. She was laying on top of him now. He could hear her heart racing. All the world seemed to stop just for them. Arafinwë caressed her cheek.

“I love you, Arafinwë.”

In the future, they would tell their children they had bonded on the balcony, joined their minds and hearts as Elves do. An adolescentFindaráto would squirm to hear he had been conceived on the same balcony, despite his later admissions that it was romantic.

But for now, there was no thought of the future. There was only them.

“I love you too.”


End file.
